Spark
by ReganX
Summary: Reaped as a Tribute in the 71st Hunger Games, thirteen-year-old Katniss Everdeen is an instant write-off for most of those around her, a useful tool for others. One or two might even care enough to give the plucky kid a shot. Mixed POV. Co-authored with SionnachOghma.


**Author's Note:** This story is a collaboration by myself and my best friend, SionnachOghma. It has been in the works a long time, but we decided to post in advance of the release of _The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes_. This chapter, which differs from the other, will be posted on my account temporarily, as a sample/taster. The story proper will be posted on our account for co-authored works, ReganXandSionnachO.

We hope that you enjoy this story.

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**Chapter One**

_Effie_

Is the reek of soot and decay from District Twelve really so strong that I can smell it through the open window a full thirty minutes before the train arrives, or is all that simply my imagination? Either way the result is the same; I catch myself three times on the verge of biting my nails, my stomach roils despite the fact that I could only manage the lightest of breakfasts this morning, and I'm certain my makeup is melting away with sweat.

I'm pacing up and down the entrance and exit corridor, empty but for myself and a lone attendant, a young man whose eye remain glued to the thick purple carpet at his feet. The silk and velvet drapes hanging from glimmering golden rails are purple too, and a small but beautiful gold and crystal chandelier hangs overhead, with matching candelabras spaced along the walls. Even though they'll only pass through this corridor twice during their whole journey, it is in a way the Tributes' first look at the Capitol, and at the honour being bestowed upon them. Even the poorest of Tributes are treated like royalty.

Though I've yet to have one who appreciated anything other than the food.

No, no, no. I came here to clear my head, not to remind myself of what's waiting for me at the end of this journey. Dead eyes, hollow cheeks, and a district under what seems a constant funeral pall. Black dust and black moods. The most unwelcoming place in all of Panem.

_Stop it! _I try to force my thoughts in a different direction. Fashion is the first thing to come to mind, and usually it would cheer me up in a heartbeat, but now I'm very aware of the clash between the purple finery all around me and my canary yellow ensemble. I should have waited in my compartment.

The train lurches, and I place a hand on the wall to steady myself. We're slowing down. Are we there already? Oh, heavens, I'm not prepared for this. The miserable children. Haymitch Abernathy. Hovels for homes. Haymitch Abernathy. The festering aura of neglect in that dilapidated Justice Building. Haymitch Abernathy. The palpable rage of parents who see nothing of the honour and glory the Hunger Games offers, only their children being snatched away from them. Haymitch Abernathy.

The train comes to a halt all too soon. I have an instant to check my reflection in the glass doors before they part. My hair and makeup, despite my fears, are perfect. A deep breath, the closest thing to a little fresh air I'm likely to have for the next few hours, and I'm smiling widely as I step onto the platform, where a pair of Peacekeepers stand immediately behind a willowy girl who seems to be just of Reaping age. Mayor Undersee's daughter, Margery, I have to remind myself. Here in place of her father, who's absent for the second year in a row. He'll be at the Reaping, of course, but his wife won't. I've yet to meet his wife.

The girl gives a slight curtsey. "Lovely to see you again, Miss Trinket," she announces politely. Tertius Cray, the Head Peacekeeper, inclines his head respectfully, and his young subordinate, a red-headed young man who must still be a trainee, eyes me with ill-concealed amusement.

"Hello, Margery, darling." I embrace the girl gently, brushing my lips against each of her cheeks, then extend my hand to Tertius. He's a scruffy little man, whose reputation is one of undisciplined laziness and debauchery, but he remembers his courtesies well enough, clasping my hand and bending at the waist to bump his stubbly lip against it. As he straightens I catch a slight whiff of liquor from his breath, but his eyes are clear and he doesn't appear flushed.

"Everything almost ready, Commander Cray?"

"Near enough, ma'am. All of the technical tests are completed, and registrations for new candidates are underway. There is," he hesitates, glancing at the girl, "one small issue we could use your input on."

Some sort of trouble with the mayor? My eyes flicker to Margery too, but she seems perfectly composed, then Tertius mouths a name at me and I have to suppress a groan. What will it be this year?

"This way, please," he continues, leading us just outside the station exit where an old, but clean town car idles, flanked by a pair of Peacekeeper vehicles. Margery and I take the middle car, while Tertius clambers in next to the driver of the lead vehicle, and the younger man moves to the one in the back.

"I'm sorry my father was unavailable to meet you this morning," Margery announces as soon as we're underway. "There was an incident at home he had to attend to."

"Not at all, dear," I tell her, waving off the apology. This is my seventh year as escort for District Twelve, following two years as an assistant to Septimia Kincardine before she managed to escape to what I'm told are the much greener pastures of District Seven. She hadn't expected to rise so high, but perhaps someone had taken pity on her after all the years of managing the coal district and its sole living Victor.

I can only hope someone soon takes pity on me.

Only twice in the last nine years has Mayor Undersee been present to meet me at the train station, always citing his wife and her mysterious ailment as his excuse. I have no idea what's wrong with her, but I do know a steady supply of morphling is shipped to the Undersee home, at a cost even the mayor could not sustain if somebody in the Capitol didn't have specific instructions to keep the supply going.

Margery blushes slightly, embarrassed, whether at her father's absence or my awareness of her home situation I don't know, and ducks her head, fidgeting with a circular pin attached to her dress. A golden bird in flight, attached to a gold ring by the tips of its wings.

"That's beautiful," I say, hoping to distract her.

"It belonged to my aunt Maysie," she tells me. "She wore it during her Games; the second Quarter Quell."

I have to stop myself from grimacing. The Fiftieth Hunger Games. The year Haymitch Abernathy won, though I have no idea how. Whenever the highlights of old Games are broadcast, be it for nostalgia, or for the analysts, sponsors and gamblers to study for the upcoming Games, the second Quell is always curiously absent. My own curiosity got the better of me once, and I attempted to track down the footage, but could never find any. Perhaps something happened to the original. I once made the mistake of asking the man himself how he did it. He threw a glass at me. Thankfully his aim was atrocious, being so out of his mind with drink that he probably didn't know which of the three Effies he was seeing had asked the question.

"Beautiful," I say again, absently. "Is that a jabberjay?"

"A mockingjay," she says, with a hint of pride and anger I don't understand. "It's an old family symbol."

It can't be _that_ old, I think. The jabberjays themselves were bred only during the last war; one of the Capitol's most effective methods of spying on the rebels. The genetically modified, exclusively male homing birds were capable of memorizing and repeating human speech, right down to the voice, and relaying entire conversations back to their handlers verbatim upon their return. Eventually, the rebels caught on and began sending our birds back full of lies and misinformation, and the jabberjays were abandoned to the wild.

They should have died out, but found a way of continuing the line in mating with female mockingbirds, and a new species was born. The mockingjay. A pretty, if unremarkable songbird, and never one I've heard of being adopted as a family crest, but I don't question the oddity.

"Perhaps you'll have the chance to bring the same pin into the Games yourself," I suggest brightly. "You'd certainly be doing your auntie's memory proud, and maybe District Twelve could even have a new Victor!" It's ridiculous, of course, that such a tiny little thing could ever be a true competitor in the Hunger Games, but there's no need to suggest to the girl that she should abandon any hope of glory in the event that she finds herself being reaped, and if her answering smile a tad tight, then at least she's no longer worrying about her mother.

The rest of the drive is silent, though mercifully short. As soon as the cars stop, the red-haired Peacekeeper hops out and jogs to open our door. I gesture for Margery to exit first. The air is even more stagnant here, and a thin layer of soot coats everything in sight, including what should be a pristine white Justice Building.

In the balcony above the main doors and on rooftops all around, camera crews are rechecking their equipment, and though only a handful of older children are here this early, there's quite a line at the tables for the registration of first year Tributes.

Margery eyes the scene with a touch of apprehension, takes a deep breath, and turns back to me. "Good luck today, Miss Trinket," she mutters, her voice shaking slightly, and considering the 'small issue' Tertius mentioned, I suspect I'll sorely need all the luck I can get.

"To you as well," I whisper, my voice for some reason even more faint than hers.

She gives a small nod to the younger Peacekeeper, ignores Tertius when she finds him standing behind her, and walks to a pair of girls a little older than her, who seem from their dress to be of the merchant quarter.

I take a deep breath of my own and address Tertius. "Shall we?"

He leads me inside and through the dilapidated Justice Building. Superficially, the place is quite clean, but no amount of dusting or polishing can hide the disrepair. Every piece of upholstery is visibly threadbare even at a distance, and there isn't a floorboard anywhere that doesn't groan in protest at our footfalls. Quite a bit of the decoration seems to be a wasted attempt to conceal cracks in the walls or spots of damp, and the odour of rotten wood is everywhere, except in the elevator, where it is drowned by the funk of sour milk.

Though the building is only three stories tall, the creaking and squeaking of the elevator has me wishing we'd taken the stairs. When the doors open, they do so with a screech that sets my teeth on edge and I half-run through them before regaining my composure. Tertius deliberately doesn't notice, but I'm beginning to loathe the amusement on the younger man's face.

We march down the long, dimly lit corridor towards the Head Peacekeeper's office, and the putrid stench that assaults us when Tertius flings open the door almost has me retreating back to the elevator. I'm actually thankful for the string of profanity Tertius unleashes, as it keeps any slip of my own unheard as I pull a handkerchief from my purse to clasp over my nose and mouth as tightly as I dare for fear of ruining my makeup.

A lone figure slumps unconscious in the chair in front of the Head's desk. These, together with Tertius' own chair on the far side, comprise the entirety of the furniture in the office. Tertius quickly crosses the room to the large, dusty windows, and opens every one he can, which is all but one, whose rusted frame simply refuses to cooperate.

The younger Peacekeeper crosses to the man in the chair, sidestepping a large puddle comprised of coffee, a shattered cup, a quite a lot of pale, watery vomit. He leans close to man in the chair, then recoils, coughing. "Well, he's breathing," he announces once he's settled himself.

"Such a blessing," I snap. "Let us all be thankful."

Tertius gives up on the last window and turns to survey the damage. "Two of my men went over to pick him up this morning. One wound up needing six stitches to his head, but they got him under control, and then went to the Hob to get him some suitable clothes."

I eye the 'suitable clothes' dubiously. An oft-mended grey shirt is stretched tightly over his paunch, the sleeves barely reaching past his elbows. The black trousers are too short also, spattered with vomit, the hems frayed away to nothing. I lift my eyes to Tertius, questioning. "Well, more suitable than anything we'd have found in that rats nest of his," he shrugs. "At least they were clean before... this."

I inhale, because I have no other choice, and can't tell how much of the vile odour is from the mess on the floor, and how much from the man himself. I reach out towards him, and draw my hand back at the last instant, too disgusted to actually touch him. The metallic snap behind my back makes me jump, and I turn to find Tertius grasping a spring-loaded baton by the end, extending the handle towards me.

I take the device thankfully, and take a careful poke at the man in the chair. "Haymitch," I hiss. No response. I prod him again, harder. "Haymitch!"

He gives a great snort and turns, swatting at the annoyance. There's an instant of dead silence before he sits bolt upright in the chair, staring fitfully around him like a child who fell asleep at home and now finds himself waking in some house of horrors. He gapes at the boy, grimaces slightly in Tertius' direction, and then his eyes fall on me. A furious scowl settles on his already repellent features; a patchy, bristled beard on a face I know to be olive-toned beneath the sallowness the years of self-abuse have left him with.

"Oh, wonderful," he declares, glaring at me with narrow, bloodshot eyes. When he speaks his mouth is a yellow and black hole in his face, the rotten teeth all misaligned where they are present at all. "Nobody decided to put an end to you or that _voice _of yours in the last year."

The baton is still in my hand, and for an instant I'm actually tempted to use it to do something about _his _voice. My grip on the handle tightens, and Haymitch's horrid grin widens before the weapon is plucked out of my hand. He returns his glare to Tertius, considering, then shrugs.

"Well," he mutters, hefting himself out of the chair, "we can always ho-" the last word cuts off with a choke as the heroic Victor of the second Quarter Quell both retches again and simultaneously slips in the puddle already at his feet. Everyone jumps back, and I pluck at my skirt and yank it higher than decency would dictate. Not that anybody notices. All eyes are on Haymitch as he flies forward, barely giving Tertius time to get clear before a fresh wave of vomit flows all over his desk and Haymitch collapses face down right in the middle of the mess.

"Oh, for heavens' sake!" I shriek. "Just get him out of here and onto the train. Or onto the tracks, for all I care!"

Tertius checks himself over to be certain he made a clean escape, and then regards his office with ill-disguised revulsion. "What about the Reaping? If he isn't there -"

"I will have to answer for that, not you," I remind him testily. "And at the moment I would much prefer to answer for his absence than his presence."

Tertius turns to the younger man. "The late shift is just finishing up. Pull two men to get him on the train and find an attendent or two to get him cleaned and changed." He smiles, darkly amused. "Then I want _you_ to get this place cleaned up and aired out by the time the train leaves." The boy pales, and Tertius chuckles. "Let that be a reminder; next time you have to subdue a drunk, a knee to the gut may not be the smartest way to go about it."

He indicates that we can leave. Realising I'm still grasping my skirt, I hastily smooth it out, then more hastily depart the scene, ignoring the spluttering and choking as the lump on the floor once again returns to consciousness. Tertius is immediately behind me. "Not a stupid kid, exactly," he whispers to me after slamming the door, "but as wet behind the ears as any new recruit I've ever seen. I suppose it's good he reacted so quickly, though, or Barret probably would have lost an eye."

"What about Mayor Undersee?" I demand. Despite his home situation, the mayor has always been perfectly punctual and composed for the Reapings, but it seems this is the day for everything to go wrong. I'm already dreading explaining to Seneca Crane how I ordered Haymitch be kept away, despite what I said before.

Tertius sighs. "I found Madge sitting on the front steps of the house, crying. From what I could gather, her mother saw her dressed for the Reaping and became completely insensible." His eyes are clouded, sad for the child growing up with such a burden. "By the time I arrived they'd already given her a triple dose of morphling and she was still shrieking to rattle the windows, but I'm sure they'll get her under control. This isn't a new experience for them. He'll be ready."

I blink in surprise, realising we've already decended and are out of the elevator once again. One thing can be said for the state Haymitch has me in; there's little room for concern over the little things.

Tertius checks his watch and announces that we still have a little time for an early lunch. I couldn't eat anything, but I allow that some tea will probably settle my nerves. Usually food would be brought to us in his office, but today we enter the cafeteria used by the building staff and Peacekeepers. Tertius directs me to an empty table and goes to the counter. Tea for me, coffee and biscuits for himself. My eyes tighten as he plucks a small flask from his pocket, topping up his cup with what he no doubt believes to be perfect discretion.

I drink my tea with no milk or sugar, as I would my favourite herbal brews in the Capitol. It's earthy and bitter, but I found to my surprise on my first year as escort that the one and only variety of tea served in District Twelve is preferable to my home favourites on a stressful day.

I'm considering whether or not I have time for a second cup when the door behind me opens, and Tertius gives a nod. I turn slightly and am relieved to find the mayor approaching us.

His face is slightly pale, and he wears his grief in every line upon it, but he's groomed and clean and well-dressed, the sash of his office slung across his breast, perfectly straight, his suit spotless and only very slightly worn.

"My apologies, Miss Trinket," he wheezes, his breath heavy. He looks to Tertius, who gives him a once-over and a curt nod.

"Not at all, Mr Mayor," I tell him graciously. "I do hope everything is well at home."

His face tightens slightly. For all his courtesy, Mayor Undersee is as District as the rest of them, and he doesn't like my being aware of his wife's condition, but it would have been rude of me not to ask. "Maggie's... having a bad day," he whispers, his eyes downcast. "She's sleeping at the moment."

There's little else to say, and thankfully there isn't really time to linger. I'm the first to rise, and the men follow in unison.

"I'm afraid there's been a slight change to the program," I whisper to the mayor as we make our way to the front of the building. Haymitch won't be joining us. He's... having a bad day," I tell him. It seems very poor taste to use the same words for Haymitch that he used for his wife, but there isn't really any other way I think to describe it. The mayor doesn't need to be worrying about the details, and I'd prefer that those milling about us don't hear them. I can only hope the pair who hauled Haymitch away were able to do so with some measure of subtlety. The less of this farce that ends up being televised, the better.

Mayor Undersee is silent for a moment. "What about the reading of the names?" he asks finally.

I hadn't considered that. It's customary for the names of a District's Victors to be announced, and for those who still live to take a bow for the audience. Haymitch always botches or ignores that part of the ceremony, usually just scowling at the gathered candidates, and only once do I recall him even so much as standing up.

"Best to skip it," I decide. "The less attention we draw to his absence, the better."

A pair of Peacekeepers pull the main doors open, and where an instant before the square was buzzing like a nest of wasps, an oppressive silence descends all at once. The square that was near empty when I went inside is now packed to capacity. A sea of dour faces lies before the stage, with mostly older children to the forefront.

Generally, those most likely to be reaped are from the poorest part of the district, which I've heard referred to as the Seam. The offspring of the unskilled, often with more siblings than their parents can reasonably support without living off of tessarae rations supplied by the Capitol, and as a result they tend to have far more reaping slips than most. It helps to move things along when the elder children of Seam families are gathered near the stage, but you can see the exact spot where the Peacekeepers gave up trying to enforce any semblance of order on that which habitually defies order, or common sense.

A few rows in, it's a chaotic mix, and even the few Peacekeepers passing between the children have to push and shove. As I'm taking my seat, I see a tall, gangly boy lose his footing and snap something at the Peacekeeper who elbowed him aside. The masked figure - they're all masked now, save for Tertius - stops and turns languidly to face him. They're too far away for me to hear, and with the mask I have no idea if the Peacekeeper speaks, but the boy stands rigidly in front of him, glaring - until the butt of a gun whips across his face with lightning speed, and he falls to his knees, one instantly bloody hand clasped over his mouth. I wince. The boy is obviously an idiot, but with the way my day is going, he's likely to be up on stage in ten minutes. Even the rawest of Peacekeepers should know better, on a day like today.

Mayor Undersee moves to the podium, waits a moment for a signal from one of the rooftop cameramen, and clears his throat. He begins, as always, with the sanitized history of the end of the old world, which is the only version known to the districts. The wars that left great swathes of land on the North American continent uninhabitable. The drastic changes in the weather, the cause of which is still a subject of debate in the Capitol. There are some that say the world naturally moves through such cycles, and that no amount of human interference could have had such wide-reaching or disastrous results. Others point to how easily our own Gamemakers manipulate the weather on a small scale in the arenas, and the staggering population counts the surviving records indicate. How, they point out, could such a destructive species as man _fail_ to have such results on their environments?

For centuries the cycle repeated. One war after another, cities rebuilt only to be destroyed all over again. It seemed like the end of us all.

Until the northern neighbours of the squabling descendants of the United States descended upon them. They brought a sword, but they also brought peace and plenty. Over the slow years, the warring lands were settled, forgotten techniques of farming and industry reestablished with the knowledge of the invaders, and the new world formed. Survival in the forbidding lands above the Rocky Mountains had fostered quite a bit of ingenuity, and though necessity had eventually driven us south, we had the tools and knowledge necessary to restore civilization.

For a time, at least. The districts formed to provide us with all we needed, from power to food to new technologies, grew restless over time. They accused their conquerors in the Capitol of slavery, institutional cruelty and starvation to keep the districts in line. It was said we grew fat and lazy on the fruits of their labors. But when they rose up in rebellion, they learned we were neither.

The war was brutal on both sides; an ever-escalating game of death. The rebels bombed a supply train; we levelled a factory. They attacked our soldiers; we destroyed a school. They threatened us with nuclear weapons; we called their bluff and fired ours first. That truth is one nobody in the districts and few in the Capitol are aware of. Even I shouldn't know. In the districts, it's believed the Capitol destruction of the graphite miners in District Thirteen was a threat, and since then it has served well as such. In truth, noboby mined graphite there. They developed nuclear weapons, and when a rebel faction seized control of the silos and prepared to launch at the other districts, preempting them was the only hope any of us had.

For the rebels hadn't liked their chances of actually wiping out the Capitol, even with nuclear weapons. The unerring accuracy of the satelite guided missiles of old had become a fantasy, and any attempts to get nuclear bombers close enough to the Capitol to actually hit us, safely nestled in our mountain city would have been a fool's gambit of the worst order. Instead, the lunatics at the controls in District Thirteen had settled on the utter destruction of the species through the obliteration of the districts and the slow starvation of the Capitol who depended upon them. In the end, only the indecision and infighting in Thirteen had allowed us the time to strike. We saved the world again.

In the wake of the bombing, they branded us monsters, but the monsters had won. Surrender was, for the most part, immediate.

In the wake of the war, strict new laws were imposed to keep the peace. Travel outside of one's district was expressly forbidden outside of official Capitol business. Even citizens of the Capitol were forbidden from visiting the districts without the written consent of the government.

The old system of government assistance for struggling parents and those unable to work was abolished and replaced with the Tessarae system. This new system was made available only to those between the ages of twelve and eighteen, and was inextricably linked to the final form of punishment; that which would become central to our society in a way I doubt the lawmakers ever expected. The Hunger Games.

The rules of the Hunger Games are quite simple. Every district denizen between the ages of twelve and eighteen is entered in the yearly Reaping, which will select one boy and one girl each year to do battle in a specially constructed arena. Those who rely on the Tessarae rations have more entries than those who support themselves. The system is meant to encourage self-sufficiency, but every year in the outlying districts, the bulk of those reaped - known as Tributes - are filthy and underfed, clearly from families who rely on the Capitol to prop them up and grumble about the consequences later.

In the more prosperous districts, those being One, Two and Four, the Tributes are the polar opposite of those further from the Capitol's influence. More often than not, they are volunteers, eager for an opportunity to seize the glory of being crowned Victor; for every year only one Tribute emerges from the Hunger Games, and that Tribute lives ever after in wealth and luxury, a darling of the Capitol, held up as a shining example of the achievements possible for those who persevere.

There are, of course, exceptions to every rule. Exceptions like Haymitch Abernathy; and, just as the outlying districts provide hungry, uncouth Tributes, it is the Victors from those districts who always seem to disappoint in some way, or every way.

Even so, triumph more often than not comes to those who embody the spirit of the Games. The Hunger Games are not merely the brutal form of entertainment cited by critics of the practice. They are a reminder of what we lost, and of how close we came to falling right over the edge of the abyss, to the end of all things. The Capitol may have saved us, but it is the ceremony of the Hunger Games, and its harsh reminder of the annihilation we courted, that keeps us safe.

"It is," as the mayor solemnly intones, "a time of repentance, and a time of thanks."

The grim, sullen faces in the crowd suggest they have little time for either. Really, is it any wonder the only example of a Victor they can produce is Haymitch?

From here, Mayor Undersee makes a brave attempt at a more cheerful tone as he half-turns toward me, holding out an arm in welcome and introducing me for what I pray to be the last time as the Capitol escort for District Twelve.

I rise, give a brief wave, and walk to the podium without pausing for the acknowledgement I know not to expect. In most districts, the escort is greeted with polite applause, and in Districts One and Two, enthusiastic uproar. Here, there is only the dead silence of glaring disrespect. I've learned to rise above it.

The mayor shakes my hand and moves to take his seat, and I look out over the silent host of judges. Though many are out in what counts as their Reaping best, mostly clean with a spattering of colour here and there, I look down on a drab sea of black and gray, unreal and unforgiving.

I raise my eyes and fix on a point beyond them all, just above their heads. Between the lines of buildings, a small glimpse of the oddly beautiful forests beyond the district is visible. I take in that sliver of a view beyond this gloomy prison, and forcing my best smile doesn't take quite as much effort as I expected. "Happy Hunger Games!" I announce enthusiastically. "And may the odds be _ever _in your favour!"

I'm supposed to tell a bald-faced lie about how honoured I am to be here, but I can already feel the panic rising. The tea hasn't helped like I thought it would, and I'm sure Haymitch's absence and the Mayor's not mentioning him has not gone unnoticed. My stomach threatens to revolt, my voice quavering as I call out, "Ladies first!"

I cross the platform to the first of two glass balls, clench my fist briefly to stop my hand from shaking, reach in and grasp one of the thousands of small pink slips of paper within. I walk back to the podium, careful not to be seen rushing to get this ordeal over with, unfold the slip of paper, and call out the name written within.

"Katniss Everdeen!"

There is an instant buzz of angry muttering, and I find myself missing the oppressive silence as soon as it's gone. Last year in District Ten, the escort called out the name of a girl who had died a month before the Reaping, and the entire ceremony was turned on its head – the broadcast, said to be live but in truth running on a five minute delay, was unexpectedly disrupted due to a "technical fault" that prevented the ensuing riot scene from becoming a national spectacle. We only heard of it from a traumatized escort - now former escort - who'd had too much to drink during the training sessions. He told us of how the Reaping had to be done inside the Justice Building after the riot had been quelled, with the selected _living_ Tributes rounded up by Peacekeepers.

My heart is in my mouth as I silently pray I'm not about to fall victim to an angry mob because Tertius Cray botched the census, but when I finally manage to look at the crowd rather than over them, I spy a ripple of movement coming my way; the taller children parting to admit a figure I can't see until she's less than twenty feet from the stage.

Better if I'd called for a corpse.

A tiny, dark-haired girl with olive skin apart from her ashen face climbs tentatively up the steps, whip-thin and queasy-looking. She's clean, and her clothes – a pale yellow skirt and ruffled white blouse – though clearly meant for a taller, better fed girl, are well-made and of better quality than the clothes worn by most Tributes of District Twelve. She stumbles slightly at the top step, but just manages to keep her footing, before turning to face the angry crowd, her eyes darting to and fro as if seeking out an avenue of escape.

I feel as frantic as this tiny creature looks, and I can barely get my next words out. "Let's have a big round of applause for our first Tribute!"

The muttering stops. It doesn't quiet, or fade away. It simply ceases.

For all that I've become accustomed to their treatment of the ceremony, and of myself, this is not something I've encountered, even in District Twelve. Not a single sound is to be heard. I'm certain even the breeze is taking part in this silent protest.

I can't do this. I can't keep up a show of good cheer when what I want to do is stomp off in the most childish way imaginable and leave the entire wretched lot of them to face the wrath of the Gamemakers themselves.

"Right, then," I snap, my tone laden more with weariness than the bile I feel rising in my throat. "The boys." I march to the second bowl, swipe at the slips of paper within and have to pause and drop two extras, before stomping back to the podium. If my Reaping isn't already the worst disaster of this Games, I may well be making it so. My mother's chiding voice echoes shrilly in my ears. "Most unladylike," with her customary sniff of disapproval. It only makes me angrier.

I unfold the paper. "Bannock Mellark!"

A beat of silence, then running footsteps. An escape attempt? There can be no doubt; the Fates and District Twelve are conspiring against me.

I follow the belt of laughter, and when my eyes fall on the running boy, I feel relief and genuine hope for the first time since I woke up this morning. For "boy" is hardly the word to describe the tall, breathtakingly powerful creature running headlong towards the stage, not away, as I'd feared.

He's clearly of the merchant class; no Seam boy has muscles to spare, as this one does, and under an unruly mop of ashy blonde hair, his face is handsome despite the sharp angles, his mouth turned up in a mischievous grin, which may have served as a warning had I not been so desperate for something good to happen for a change.

"Well," I breathe, my delight evident as he powers up the steps, where once on a level footing with me the top of my hair only comes up to his chest. "A big cheer for – " and that's all I have time for, before the gigantic buffoon steps forward and stoops in an exaggerated mockery of a bow.

His display is met with a barrage of derisive laughter, cat calls, and a demand of "Twirl for us!" from somewhere in the mass of jeering teens. Naturally, he obliges, and I'm left quivering with furious humiliation as the mayor places a hand lightly on my back. I storm back to my seat, unable to face him, and it's only as my bottom touches the chair do I realize that in both cases I forgot to ask for volunteers. Not that there are ever any volunteers out here past the end of civilization, but this failure on my part feels like the straw that broke the camel's back.

All through the anthem and the reading of the Treaty of Treason, I keep my eyes on my shoes, willing myself not to fall apart in public and to ignore the continued titters that punctuate the mayor's every word. I need only make it back inside, then I can have some time alone during the visitation hour.

And once we reach the Capitol, I can have all the time to myself I wish, when Seneca Crane dismisses me from my post. Effie Trinket, the worst escort in the worst district.

At least _she_ isn't still alive to see this. I can picture my mother's eternal disappointment easily enough, but now, thankfully, I can choose to ignore her.

The Treaty over, the mayor calls forth the Tributes to shake hands, and I find I'm too exhausted for further rage when the girl is hauled off her feet. She gives a shocked squeal of protest as the boy lifts her up until she's at a height with him and pulls her into a crushing hug, her feet kicking inneffectually at his legs.

The laughter from the rabble picks up again at this, but the Peacekeepers seem to have had enough comedy for one day. At the back of the square, a dozen uniformed men are grabbing people from the back of the crowd and throwing them towards the exits. They go easily enough, with no signs of anybody trying to fight back, and if the Peacekeepers are rough, their pistols remain strapped to their hips and they don't seem to be deliberately hurt anyone. On the stage, Tertius Cray appears and punches the boy on the arm, prompting him to set the terrified girl down, and we are marched quickly back inside the Justice Building.

My eyes are on the boy the entire time, wondering what else he has planned to ruin this day, and I'm surprised when his wolfish grin vanishes the instant the doors slam closed behind us. His expression becomes stony, and suddenly he isn't attractive at all. He places a gentle hand on the girl's shoulder, causing her to flinch and gape up at him in confusion, but she doesn't attempt to escape his reach.

In the absence of noise my churning stomach demands my attention. With every step I'm more and more certain I won't reach our destination, and the tea which I've always found so helpful now threatens to violently reappear. _One more minute, _I tell myself, resisting the urge to clap a hand over my mouth. _Thirty seconds._

I'm down to ten seconds when we reach our destination; a dim corridor with two small rooms at the end and, mercifully, a ladies room to my immediate right. I don't quite flee as I leave the Peacekeepers to get the children situated, but if I had any dignity left after the Reaping, it's gone as I shove the door wide and all but fall through it, dashing to the nearest stall the moment I'm out of sight.

I'm sure everyone hears what follows, the door having not quite swung shut before my breakfast makes its encore, scorching my throat, making my eyes water and my knees buckle.

There was so little in my stomach that the event is over almost as soon as it's begun, and I'm down to dry heaves as I try to regain my feet. I stumble to the sink and run the faucet, cupping a little water in my hands and attempting to wet my lips without destroying my makeup.

When I force myself to meet my eyes in the mirror, I manage to take some small satisfaction that I look much more composed than I feel. Perhaps I didn't make quite the fool out of myself as I'd thought. If this is to be my last Games, I might actually escape with a scrap of dignity.

And it will be my last Games, I suddenly realise. Whatever Seneca Crane decides. Even if he doesn't force me out the door, or simply have me shot, any desire I have to stay is gone. They're never going to give me a real district after this, and I can't take any more of Twelve, of Haymitch Abernathy and...

Ugh. Haymitch. I still have to deal with him, if he's even regained consciousness by the time we reach the train. Yes. This is definitely the end of the Hunger Games for me, but I won't skulk away like a coward. I'll go out on a high note if it kills me.

Which is a distinct possibility.

I straighten my dress and my hair, breathing deep as I dig for calm. Head _up_, smile _on, _I march back outside. The red-headed Peacekeeper from earlier on, no longer smirking, smelling faintly of the mess in Cray's office, hands me a canteen of water, which I take gratefully. "It's only the family for the boy," he informs me, "but Katniss has drawn a bit of a crowd."

I take a sip from the canteen and follow his glance to where a tall boy, slim but by no means skinny, similar to Katniss in colouring and nothing else, leans against a wall next to Margery Undersee. Margery's eyes are downcast, but the boy glares hatefully at all of us in turn, daring any and all to take offence. Nobody seems willing to take him up on the challenge. Four armed Peacekeepers in the room, and all look away when he turns his eyes on them.

"Popular girl," I mutter, taking a larger gulp of water. I thought it would be the other way around, with a horde of well-wishers and collaborators waiting on Bannock Mellark, but the tiny girl from the Seam has both this boy and the mayor's daughter to attend on her. "Who is he?"

I don't think he hears me, but his eyes fall on me all the same, and I suppress a shudder as I look away, thankful for the presence of so many Peacekeepers. He's young despite his size, no older than fifteen, but I don't doubt for a second this child would murder me given half a chance.

"Gale Hawthorne," the Peacekeeper whispers. "His father was killed in a mine explosion along with Katniss', just last year. The pair of them are fairly well known around the Hob." He grimaces, eyeing me carefully, apparently aware that he's said too much.

Most Districts have a black market, and though I'm only dimly aware of the Hob, I know that there can be no legitimate reason for two children be there, and certainly not to be of note among those who trade there. What on earth can these two be getting up to?

He says no more, and I don't ask. An oppressive silence settles over the scene, and I almost jump when one of the Peacekeepers knocks on the door to Katniss' room and throws it open. Already time for her next visitor.

A stooped, dead-eyed woman tows a sobbing child out of the room. If it wasn't always family who went in first, I would never guess that these two could be related to the little girl within. They're as skinny as anyone else from the Seam, but pale and blonde. Katniss obviously takes after her father. How unforunate for her. Looking more like her sister would be at least one point in her favour. Even sobbing and blotchy-faced, the little one is by far the prettier sibling.

The woman stops briefly in front of Madge and the boy. Nobody has anything to say, but she exchanges a brief hug with each of them before she picks up the wailing child and leaves. The boy goes in next, not looking at Madge to see if she'd like to go first. Charming.

My curiosity gets the better of me the instant the door closes again. "How is it they're known in the Hob?" I ask the young Peacekeeper, suddenly annoyed that I don't know his name.

He looks me up and down, distrustful but considering. At this point I can't be insulted by his opinion of me, and I meet his gaze expectantly.

"They hunt together," he eventually allows. "Both of their fathers were hunters. Now they're the ones feeding their families. Any scrap of meat that goes through the Hob comes from the woods. From Katniss and Gale."

Hunting? _Outside_ the district? Of anything I might have expected, it wasn't this. I'm not at all surprised that the boy would fly in the face of the law and the dangers, but the thought of tiny Katniss Everdeen stalking live game through the wilderness and trading kills under the noses of the Peacekeepers - even _these _Peacekeepers. I simply can't picture it. I have no idea what sort of wildlife roams the woods around District Twelve, but I'm certain that isn't safe.

On the other hand, perhaps this means there's more to the little girl than meat for the grinder. Certainly nobody inside the arena would expect her to pose any threat. If she were a little older, a little prettier; the sort of Tribute a sponsor or two might take note of. Certainly there have been a few diamonds in the rough over the years.

Of course, even those lucky few would never have succeeded without a mentor capable of helping them.

No, I realise with weary disappointment. Even if she'd had a few years to blossom, Katniss Everdeen would still be from the coal district, and Haymitch Abernathy would still destroy any hope she might have of being a contender.

A little while later, the door is thrown open, and I hear her speak for the first time. Pleading with the boy as he's hauled from the room. "Don't let them starve!" She sounds like she's crying. The sorry truth setting in.

"I won't," he promises fervently as the Peacekeeper draws the door shut. He glares up at him, and the Peacekeeper stares pointedly over his head, carefully expressionless.

The boy's fists clench and unclench a few times before he turns and stalks away, almost barrelling right over poor Madge as she approaches the door. She pays his fury no mind, simply steps lightly aside. The door opens, and in she goes.

No sooner has it closed behind her that the other one opens. A single figure emerges. Bannock's father, I assume, tall like his son, blonde hair thinning and gone somewhat to seed, but there's a memory of the strength passed to his son in the way he carries himself.

I assume he means to use the men's room and then return to his son, but instead he approaches me. "I'd like to speak to her. Is that allowed?"

I open my mouth, and close it again. There's no rule on who can visit whom, but this just screams _bad idea._ The young man next to me flicks an arm and glances at his watch, then turns to me, shrugging. "There isn't a lot of time left."

I consider for a moment. There's been trouble in the past with the outlying districts. I know a distraught mother in Nine once tried to throttle her child's district partner, and threats aren't exactly uncommon. I can't see how this man might feel the need to threaten or harm someone so diminutive, given his son's physicality, but a part of me wonders if there might be more to his antics onstage. Perhaps there's something genuinely wrong with him? If there is, the girl may know of it, may take advantage.

"You can have a moment, but I won't leave you alone with her," I tell him. I glance at my informative Peacekeeper, who nods in agreement.

I check my own watch and confirm that time is indeed getting short. Little more than five minutes. I allow Madge another two before I signal the guard at her door. When it's opened, I see the girl yet again caught in a surprise hug, though at least Madge Undersee doesn't haul her into the air. After a brief hesitation, she returns the embrace.

I nod to Mr Mellark, and the young man follows him into the room. Madge departs quietly, head down, hands clasped tightly behind her back.

The last minutes tick away, and the Peacekeeper by Bannock's door knocks without any prompting. "Time," he calls quietly. His counterpart moves to open Katniss' door, but stops when I shake my head. A few extra seconds won't hurt, and I'm in no hurry to get to the train.

The remainder of Bannock's family emerge, two boys, younger but blonde and fit like their brother followed by a woman who manages to be both pinched-looking and beefy all at once. The boys' faces are tear-streaked, hers a thundercloud. She looks about for her husband and follows my eyes to the other door.

The youngest child gives a small sniffle, and the crack that follows has myself and all the Peacekeepers jumping in surprise. The woman's hand leaves an instant weal on the boys' cheek, and he's knocked backwards.

"That's enough out of you!" she hisses furiously, and I can only gape in astonishment. "Never mind that your brother's being sent off to slaughter; why don't you go join _him_ in crying for that Seam brat?!"

The boy gives no reaction at all. No doubt he's become accustomed to such treatment. His refusal to acknowledge her rage only seems to infuriate his mother all the more, and she raises her hand a second time.

I don't know when I make the decision, but suddenly I find myself rooted between the boy and his mother. She stops and leaps back, sputtering wordlessly. Her fist clenches, and I brace myself for the blow, but the other door opens and I'm forgotten about as her husband reappears. She turns to face him, shaking with fury, but he refuses to pay her any mind until the door closes behind him, then speaks in a low voice, perfectly calm. "The Seam brat can hear you."

Her hands drop to her sides, and she shoots all of us in turn with a look that promises retribution before grabbing the eldest of her remaining sons by the collar and storming away. The father watches them go, sighs heavily, claps a hand on the other boy, and the pair follow, bowed and silent.

I'm still staring after them in astonishment when the Tributes emerge, almost in unison. Katniss glances towards the ladies room, then looks to me in question. I nod and she dashes inside. We're waiting no more than a few seconds when she's back with us, the evidence of her tears washed away, leaving only a small, deadened girl. Perhaps she isn't completely unlike her mother after all; it would seem they react to stress in much the same way.

The boy looks bored and slightly annoyed, as if tired of the whole thing. I can only hope he stays that way.

"Very well. Ready to go?" I gather a little cheer and lead the way.

The square is empty of all but the Peacekeepers and a single car. The red-haired Peacekeeper holds open the door and we pile in for the silent journey.

During the drive I watch my Tributes for any sign of the dangerous young adventurer I was told about, or the more dangerous clown who upstaged my Reaping, but they both simply look bored. Until we reach the station, when they both appear to steel themselves in different ways. Katniss' expression becomes one of grim determination, and she scowls slightly at the cameras flashing without. The boy is smiling again, and it's all I can do not to roll my eyes.

As we exit the car and make the short walk to the train, I find myself mimicking Katniss, staring straight ahead, acknowledging nobody. I don't need to look back to know Bannock Mellark is making a fool of himself again. The reactions are quite enough.

The Peacekeepers stop at the door, and it's only then I realise I'm still holding the water bottle, which I pass back to the young man with a nod of thanks. "Good luck," he singsongs, smirking again. Because Haymitch is my problem now.

An attendant appears to take Bannock off my hands - thank heavens - and I show Katniss to her compartment. She studies her surroundings with interest, and once we reach the compartment she's gaping, eyeing the furnishings and amenities with wide, incredulous eyes. Until she catches me watching her, wherupon she abruptly looks bored again.

"Anything you want to eat or drink can be ordered at this console," I tell her, "though you may wish to wait; dinner will be served in the centre car in just over an hour.

"Should you wish to change, most of what's in this closet," I indicate the one on the far right with a wave, "should fit you." I eye her somewhat baggy blouse and the pins holding the skirt onto her tiny frame, when I spot something I hadn't noticed before. Margery Undersee's mockingjay brooch pinned to her breast. The sweetness of the gesture is somewhat soured for me; I'm stalling, putting off the inevitable.

"Well," I announce, "I'll leave you to it." I give her a small smile she doesn't see, and leave her be.

I make my slow, unsteady way to where they'll have stashed him, and stop at the door with my hand raised to knock. I'm feeling ill again, despite there being nothing left in my stomach.

_The damage is already done_, I remind myself viciously. _There's nothing left he can do to you that will compare to what Crane can do. But perhaps there's something you can do for them._

I don't knock. I wrench the sliding door open so it slams home with a crash that threatens to break the glass. The first thing I see is Haymitch, jolted awake in an overstuffed armchair, mercifully clean and finally dressed somewhat appropriately.

The attendants obviously had quite a time dealing with the smell, and have doused him an awful mix of what must have been the strongest scents on hand. It's still a vast improvement.

"That's not very ladylike, is it?" he asks with a derisive chuckle as he clambers out of the chair.

Much like in the Justice Building, I don't make a decision. I just react. I don't know if it's Haymitch's words - my mother's words - or Bannock Mellark, _his_ witch of a mother or myself I'm most furious with, but it's Haymitch who's here. It's Haymitch who falls back into the chair with a startled cry as my palm whips across his cheek.

The blow probably hurts my own hand more than Haymitch, but that doesn't stop my from delivering another before he grabs both my arms, surges out of the chair and hurls me back across the room. All the breath leaves my lungs as I crash into the door frame, and his hand grips the collar of my dress as he raises a fist.

What follows is the most _unladylike _moment of my entire life, and I can't help but be proud as Haymitch staggers back, choking and gasping for breath. He doubles over and clutches at his throat where my own fist caught him - not where I was aiming, but the result is quite enjoyable.

For one horrible moment I'm afraid he's going to throw up again, but then his choking turns to breathless laughter. He straightens with great effort, laughs again and finally manages to steady himself. "Must have been a very exciting Reaping," he comments, wheezing. "I'm sorry I missed it."

His eyes tighten and his words take on a delighted, sadistic tone. "Of course, I'm not the only one who won't be happy I wasn't there. It's Crane this year, isn't it?" I purse my lips, and he laughs again, turning his back on me. He staggers up to the food console and orders a drink. Drains it in one go, crunching the ice. His question is muffled. He spits as he talks. "So, what are they like?"

"One boy and one girl, as usual," I hiss, quivering from head to toe. Knowing full well he'd tear me to shreds I want nothing more than to hit him again, and from his smirk, he knows it. "The girl is tiny and terrified, but apparently not without useful skills; the boy is a brawny court jester; and both are sorely in need of a mentor if they're going to survive the first day of the Games, let alone have a chance of actually surviving."

He throws his glass into a trashcan, smashing it. "They? Are you forgetting how this delightful little show of yours works? _They_ aren't going to survive a damn thing. Twenty-three corpses, one _lucky _survivor. That's how it goes. Every. Single. Year."

"Thank you, Haymitch," I intone with as much calm as I can muster, "but I'm quite familiar with the format of the Hunger Games. And as I said, the children are going to need a mentor if one of them is to have a chance of not numbering among the corpses for once. Sadly, all I can offer them is a pathetic, aging drunk who simply refuses to die only because there's still alcohol in the world. Still children to murder with your ineptitude and callousness."

"Or perhaps you think I'm to blame?" I add as he opens his mouth, no doubt to throw out something vile. "You may even be right; I've done nothing to stop you. Myself and Septimia before me; we stood aside and watched as you ignored, belittled and neglected your charges before sending off to certain slaughter. Every. Single. Year."

"Well, congratulations!" I announce hysterically. "If I'm the enemy you think you're punishing, you'll be happy to know you've won. But if this is to be the end of the Hunger Games for me, then come hell, high water or the firing squad, I will see you do your duty for once. Even if it kills us both, you _will _be a mentor this year!"

I depart before he can say another word, and march to the front of the train, flagging down the first attendant I see. "I need to speak to the chief attendant immediately."


End file.
